The Piper and The Fox
by RydenStewart
Summary: There's a wedding in Corus, and Rosto is feeling a little bit down. Then he finds a distraction so interesting that she might just be gods-sent. One-sided RostoxBeka. A little RostoxOC


**~ The Piper ~**

There was a wedding in Corus. Not a big one, mind - just a few friends and family. The celebrations were simple, but full of quality, from the wines, to the feast, to the cake, and the bride's elegant, yet understated dress. For the occasion, she wore her blonde hair loose, for once, and her sisters had threaded flowers through the locks. Beka had protested the pearls given to her by the Lady Knight Sabine, but her efforts were in vain, and she wore the jewels partly in fear that the Lady would scold her if she did not.

Her husband, who was not handsome, exactly, but who possessed a pair of lovely deep blue eyes, was one Farmer Cape - now Farmer Cooper. A friendly man, he greeted each of his new wife's good friends with cheer, and chatted to them as though he'd known them for years.

One man, though invited, stood apart from the festivities, nursing a broken heart. Or a partially broken heart. In his bones, Rosto the Piper knew that there was no future in pursuing Rebekah Cooper, but to be confronted with the fact in such a flaunting, taunting way, was a different thing entirely.

As Beka flashed another winsome smile at her groom, Rosto grimaced and decided that perhaps it would be best if he removed himself from the party, before he lost his temper and hurt someone. Despite his striking appearance, with his dark eyes and white-blonde hair, Rosto found it almost insultingly easy to melt away from the wedding party and slide, unnoticed, into the streets.

His spine itched, and his eyes twitched, looking everywhere for trouble. His closest friend, Aniki Forfrysning, often teased him about being paranoid. Rosto would laugh and joke the comment away, but it remained a fact that a Rogue did not live long if he did not keep his wits about him. And to tell the truth, he was looking for a fight - his blood was humming for it. His fingers flexed and stretched, and he was keenly aware of the sheaths of knives against his skin - all nine of them, plus another handful tucked into the nooks of his clothes.

He wanted a good, proper brawl - something nice and violent, and not a little bloody. He needed to work off his dark mood, and to remove the sour taste of jealousy from his tongue. Fights were always a good distraction.

A blur of movement in the corner of the square caught Rosto's sharp eye. Looking closer, he noticed a gang of men, around his age in their mid-twenties, surrounding a small, but pretty, teenage girl. As he watched, the men herded the girl into the dark mouth of an alleyway.

Well, he thought. Just what I need - a distraction, and a pretty mot thrown into the mix!

Slinking like a shadow, unnoticed by the crowd, Rosto crept towards the alleyway, seeing the silhouettes of the group a little way down. He twisted his arm-knives out of their sheathes, and was unsurprised to realise that he was grinning like a feral cat. Oh, he did love a good fight - especially when the odds were not good. The more challenging, the better - though he knew not too gamble to hard with his life, lest he lose it.

He was only metres away when pandemonium broke loose. One moment, the girl was pressed against the wall, surrounded on all sides and shaking like a leaf - the next, her foot snapped out and knocked the leader to his back, his head cracking so hard against the ground Rosto could almost see the stars in his eyes. She bounced off the wall like she'd been catapulted, and dodged the swinging fist of another man. What followed, Rosto could only describe as a dance. She was elegant, graceful, smooth - she flowed like water, almost boneless in her effortless, flexible violence.

This is what Aniki looks like with a sword, he thought. Or Beka when she runs. Is this what I look like, in a knife-fight? Is there truth in the rumours that my duels are like poetry?

Rosto had never put stock in the flattering honey-words of simpering admirers, though he acknowledged his own skill with knives. This was the first time he'd ever considered that flowery words might sometimes be necessary to describe violence as art.

The battle was over in less than two minutes, and the girl dipped to rummage through the pockets of the fallen men. Rosto snapped out of his trance, and after putting his knives away, clapped his hands together, applauding her skill.

The girl leapt to her feet, hands up in a fighting stance, looking at him warily. As Rosto approached, he realised that she was older than he'd first thought - perhaps twenty two or twenty three. She was tiny, he noted, at around only five feet tall, almost like a child. She had the body of a woman, though, he noted with pleasure. Her eyes were a serious shade of grey - like a sea-storm, and her black curls hovered over her shoulder in sweat-slicked ringlets.

"I've never seen anyone fight like that before," he told her, grinning wolfishly.

"Haven't you?" She arched an eyebrow, and straightened up, but Rosto noticed that she did not relax her guard.

"No." He replied. "It's always a pleasure to meet such a talented dancer, my name is Rosto-"

"The Piper," she finished, a sly smile tucked into the corner of her sensuous pink mouth. "I know."

"Word gets around, I suppose," Rosto shrugged, chuckling. "Is it forward of me to ask your name?"

"Jinoah," she slid down to the body on the ground again. "The Fox."

It was Rosto's turn to arch an eyebrow. "I see."

He crouched next to one of the men, and recognised him as a man known for forcing his women. Rosto supposed that this beating was only what he deserved.

"Are they dead?" He asked.

"No," Jinoah shrugged, the movement dislodging a black curl from behind her ear. She batted it away with an impatient hand, and pocketed the few coins she'd found on the first man, moving to the next. "They're just unconscious, but I figure they'll be humbled when they realise they were beaten and robbed by a girl that they were hoping to beat and rob."

"Humiliation is always fun," Rosto grinned. "As long as it isn't me."

"Of course," Jinoah nodded, her tone serious. She turned away, but Rosto glimpsed the expression of mischief on her face all the same.

"Are you new in town?" He asked, playfully dribbling a little mud into the rapist's mouth - he'd wake up to a bad taste indeed.

"Fairly," Jinoah had quickly removed the valuables from the other men, and had now arrived at Rosto's rapist - the fifth and final man. "I arrived in Corus three days ago, but the only inns I've found for cheap are dirty - which is to be expected - but their keepers keep tossing me out when I won't sleep with them! It's extremely irksome, to tell the truth."

"Where are you from?" Rosto asked, filching the unconscious man's dirty knives and flicking them at a nearby crate. Each knife thunked deep into the wood, perfectly on target, despite their poorly balanced weight - Rosto noticed Jinoah's appreciation of his skill, and felt a smirk steal itself onto his face. A woman who knew good fighting skills, and who also recognised them in others? He almost believed that this distraction was gods-sent.

Jinoah kept her eyes on his hands, as she answered. "Oh, here and there - I get around."

"Is that so?" Rosto leaned back, almost lazily. "What do you do that involves so much travel?" A spy? He thought. A thief? A dancer with very good self-defence teachers? Perhaps she was like him - a runaway, who learned all the tricks of survival practically from the cradle.

"I follow the wind," she told him, grinning.

"Like a leaf?"

"Like a Shang."

"I thought the Shang were," he peered at her. "Well, a little bigger."

"The Shang take all sorts," Jinoah replied with a shrug. "And it's no bother to me that I'm small, it's better to be underestimated in a fight. Your opponents get cocky and arrogant, and they let down their guard. It's awful fun, teaching them lessons."

"So I see." Rosto glanced around at the fallen men to illustrate his meaning. "But I thought the Shang were named for creatures of myth - Dragons, Griffins, Phoenixes and the like. You said were a fox."

"The Fox," Jinoah corrected him, standing to dust off her hands and strolling away, Rosto following her with the grace and silence of a shadow. "Only the greatest are named for the big creatures, which is fair enough, but I like foxes, personally. Sneaky, clever, cunning animals, don't you agree?"

"I do."

"Why do they call you the Piper?"

Rosto grinned. "Well, there are a couple of stories - that I carve the bones of my enemies into pipes, that they sing like musicians when I torture them, that I play the pipes... pretty standard stories."

"Are any of them true?" Jinoah asked as she strolled out of the alleyway, Rosto on her heels.

"Not a one," he smirked. "But it's a story I only tell to good, close friends."

Jinoah shrugged. "Well, I don't plan on sticking around for that long. Maybe I'll just trick it our of you."

"Maybe you will."

"Why don't I trick it out of you, say, over dinner? Tonight. Your place."

"My place? You move awfully fast."

"No - the Dancing Dove just has a good reputation. And a lot of quick exits. And very few brawls. Brawls are bothersome."

"I see your point."

"So," Jinoah stopped walking, and Rosto realised that they were standing outside Beka's wedding. "I'll see you in a few hours, at your place, and you will tell me a wonderful story about how you got your name, and then maybe there will be some kissing, and maybe a little bit more, and we'll have such fun together that you'll forget all about your Terrier girl." She glances at the wedding guests, and sees Beka in the middle of a dance, looking radiant. "At least, for a little while."

"How did you-" Rosto swallowed, to wet his dry throat. "How did you know?"

Jinoah laughed. "It's not hard to figure out, the Rogue of Corus is the template for a lot of rumours and gossip - some is a little more true than others."

"I see."

"I'll see you tonight," she winked as she skipped away. "And you _will_ tell me that story."


End file.
